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All templars took vigil before receiving their arms.
The ceremony only lasted from midnight to dawn the following morning, but it was an essential trial of discipline and reflection every recruit had to endure before they could claim full knighthood. As Knight-Captain, it was Cullen’s duty to preside over the the affair, to guide the recruits into their next phase of the Order, to serve them their first taste of lyrium, to impart a sense of purpose and morality before they took up their swords.
He also had to ensure none of them succumbed to sleep; at least one small group per recruits always thought they had found a trick to get some shut-eye, but Cullen had watched every vigil since he took his title at Kirkwall. He knew all the tricks.
The affair was one of the few times he could forgo the heavy plate while on duty. He appreciated the reprieve from the weight of the armor, and even in the summer, the sanguine velvet of his ceremonial robes was far cooler than the layers of leather and metal that were usually strapped to his chest.
Cullen rubbed a bare hand over the rich fabric, smoothing the dense knit across his hips and thighs until the color was uniform and the drape settled appropriately. Catching sight of an errant thread jutting out from the embroidered Sword of Mercy burning across his chest, he licked his index finger and pressed it back into place.
In truth, he knew the vigil had become something of a farce in recent years, with the increasing number of knights who only wanted coin or the grasp of meager power. It never deterred Cullen from treating the rite of passage with the dignity and ceremony it deserved.
“Which mage will be present tonight?” Cullen asked Ser Cara, his attending knight.
A good woman, a good templar, Cullen decided. She had taken her own vigil only months earlier, and had been witness to one of the most grotesque Harrowings he had heard about. A pride demon had fully abominated through the apprentice, who had been dabbling in blood magic unbeknowsts to anyone else. It crushed one of the other knights, claws and teeth shredding the silverite armor, and left her and the First Enchanter to fend for themselves.
Meredith’s presence had been increasingly absent in most affairs.
“Bethany Hawke, ser.”
As if on cue, the dark-haired mage met him at the dais.
“Knight-Captain,” Bethany said quietly with a modest bow.
“Serah Hawke,” he replied with a grateful nod.
The three took their places as the dozen recruits lined into the Chantry, creating three rigid rows before the pew. Cullen led them in the opening prayer before reminding them of the vigil’s purpose: a needed time of discipline and reflection, even under difficult circumstances, as that befitted the role of the templars. As he made his closing words, Bethany and Ser Cara walked between the rows, offering each recruit their first vial of lyrium. The recruits took to their knees in unison, dosed, and the vigil began.
Cullen walked between the rows, noticing some of the recruits began whispering the Chant so quietly they might have just been mouthing it. He took his place at the back of the Chantry, hands clasped in front of his waist.
“Do they have to recite the Chant all night?”
Cullen turned to see Bethany approaching. Her dark hair had grown since being in the Circle, long enough to partially cover the Chantry sun on her red ceremonial robes.
“They have to reflect all night,” Cullen replied, his voice a low whisper. “Reciting the Chant is one way, but most lose steam after about an hour.”
She only nodded in response as she took position beside him. Cullen glanced in her direction, seeing the discipline in her expression as she watched the recruits.
“You’re not required to stay the entire ceremony, however,” he told her kindly.
Mages traditionally accompanied most vigils, a reminder to the recruits who their wards would be, but that tradition had only recently been restored in the Gallows by Cullen. The Knight-Commander had her doubts, fearful that her knights might lose sight of the inevitable danger that lurked within their walls, but they compromised: one mage, pending commendable behavior, could be present to help distribute lyrium.
Bethany shrugged her narrow shoulders. “We’re not allowed to read in the library at night anymore, and my bunkmate snores worse than my brothers ever did.”
Cullen unclasped his hands, running his palms over imaginary wrinkles. He had supported Orsino’s petition for for one more hour of access to the library, but it had been shut down. Illicit materials had managed to sneak their way into the collection, the Knight-Commander insisted. Reading was only to be permitted under close supervision, and they needed to keep their knights focused on the sleeping quarters late at night.
“I can help you keep watch for dozing templars,” she suggested with a smile lurking in her eyes. “I used to be very good at watching templars.”
A smirk twitched the corner of his mouth. “You can stay for a little while, if you’d like.”
He heard her exhale, an audible breath strained with the attempt to be silent.
Slowly, as Cullen predicted, the faint hum of whispered prayers subsided, leaving only gentle murmur of the waves rocking against the Gallows, punctuated by the occasional cough or scratch of metal.
“I know I shouldn’t ask,” Bethany whispered, “But have you spoken to my brother recently?”
Cullen licked his lips. She could ask; he shouldn’t answer.
“Briefly,” he whispered back, his voice sounding inappropriately loud in the silent chapel. None of the recruits before them responded. “But it was only about…” The Knight-Commander. “Politics.”
“I understand the Seneschal has been pushed by a few groups to name him Viscount,” Bethany replied. A soft laugh escaped her lips. “When we were in Lothering, it was a struggle to get him out of bed before noon. And now… Viscount?”
She shook her head, wiping away her smile with the movement. Cullen kept his gaze forward, focusing on the statue of Andraste that stood tall at the other end of the Chantry.
“Oh!” Bethany breathed, excited. She pointed to a slumped over recruit and leaned in close to whisper, “I think he’s asleep, or about to be.”
“Ser Terrel!” Cullen’s voice boomed across the room. The recruit shook his head and glanced around nervously, meeting the reprimanding and sympathetic gazes of his comrades before seeing his Captain’s scowl. He quickly turned away.
Bethany covered her mouth, stifling a giggle. Cullen smiled into his chest, reminding himself that this was a formal affair before he could laugh with her. He glanced over at Bethany, appreciating her attempts at subtlety. Terrel, and all the recruits, truly needed to consider the responsibilities that awaited them.
Not all mages were like Bethany.
Even the waves eventually slowed and quieted their assault against the Gallows’ borders. Cullen felt a familiar heat with each blink of his eyes, but remained ever alert, watching the nods and shifts and hearing the slight murmurs of Chants and empathetic idle chatter. He stiffened, however, when he felt the warmth of Bethany’s hair and forehead press against the velvet lining his shoulder. He leaned towards her, noticing her closed eyes, and wrapped an arm around her upper back.
“Bethany,” he whispered.
Her lashes fluttered, and she politely recoiled when she became aware of the scenario.
“You should get some rest,” Cullen suggested.
Bethany opened her mouth to reply, but yawned instead. They both smiled.
“Thank you for your help,” Cullen said. He rubbed the back of his neck. “And for the company.”
Bethany blinked slowly. “Of course. It can be lonely here.”
She bowed in respect before walking away, and Cullen glanced at the rows of the templars before him.
Lonely, indeed.